


our love is better than ice cream

by phinnia



Series: Ineffable Drabbles [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 12:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21356191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phinnia/pseuds/phinnia
Summary: Of course Crowley is responsible for the Mr. Softee truck.    If you haven't heard the horrible thing, this is close to it.  Just picture it going on and on, forever, until you want to kill the thing with a sledgehammer.  And yes, all of those things about the Mr. Softee truck are true.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Drabbles [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537249
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	our love is better than ice cream

New York did have awfully lovely parks, Aziraphale thought to himself. Not too many ducks, but they were quite lovely. A fair bit of greenery for a city this large. It was even hotter now, it was soaring past thirty degrees, getting nearer to thirty-five.

"What was this park called again?" he asks Crowley, who is ambling beside him, so unfortunately, no lovely view to look at. The scenery was quite nice, though. And Crowley didn't have the jacket, he'd miracled it away, so his arms were bare, slightly freckled from the sun. Vaguely fuzzy. He could barely see the edge of a tattoo on Crowley's arm just below the shirtsleeve, and half-wondered what it was. He should have looked when they'd swapped bodies. Why didn't he look? Why didn't he bloody look? Stupid of him not to look.

There were a few other places he ought to have looked, too. Like in the trousers. Why did he not _think_? Too worried about dying, I suppose. What was it that Crowley always said? _Live a little_. He really should start. 

"Central Park. Centrally located. Big green bit in the middle of Manhattan Island." 

"You'd think they'd have named it something more clever."

"I don't think Manhattanites go for clever. I think they go for 'practical.' The whole place is built on a massive grid." Crowley waves his hand around them. "Except below 14th Street, which is barely organized chaos. All humanity, too, not mine." He tips his head to one side. "Want an ice cream? It's broiling out here."

"Oh, yes, please. I don't see any ice cream carts."

"You'll hear it in a sec." 

Aziraphale hears it just then. A tinkling, off-tune, repetitive jingle. It goes on. And on. And on. And on.

"What is that abomination?" He can't see it, but he can certainly _hear_ it.

Crowley grins in pure, unadulterated evil glee. "One of my finest inventions. The Mr. Softee truck." He snaps his fingers, and hands Aziraphale his usual vanilla cone. "Goes through neighborhoods and gets kids to spoil their dinners and bug their parents for money. But d'you know what happened to it? There was a man who killed people out of the back of one of these trucks! Humans have sold drugs out of the back of those things! I thought it would just be a vaguely irritating invention, and humanity has made it _significantly_ worse!" 

"Dear me." Aziraphale licks his ice cream, looking over at Crowley. "That's just terrible."

"On the other hand, it was sort of responsible for food trucks, and you do like those."

"Oh, yes, those are marvelous." 

Crowley leans over and licks the side of the ice cream. The ends of their tongues touch. 

Aziraphale thinks about Crowley's tongue - how long it is, the fork at the end. He wonders how many more snake traits he's kept.

Crowley tries not to immediately discorporate on the spot. He wonders what else Aziraphale can do with his mouth. 

They are silent for a while.

"Blessed _fuck._" Crowley says about an hour later.

"What?"

"I've got that bloody jingle stuck in my head now."


End file.
